


Under any other name

by allollipoppins



Series: Keeping up with the Holmes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary Morstan Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/pseuds/allollipoppins
Summary: Of Eurus "Yuuri" Holmes and the women in his life.A series of interconnected drabbles set at different points of the Sherlock timeline (spoilers for season 2 -> 4). Possible spoilers for Cyclogenesis.Ch. 3: Mary & pre-Rosie (featuring some Victuuri).





	1. Cat people, dog people

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's procrastinating between classes instead of getting a headstart on homework? Your poppy ^^  
> In all fairness, I started out trying to write a completely different OS, and then winded up pulling out a draft that's been sitting in my folders for far too long. I hope you'll like it.  
> Note: this is in no way a bashing fic! Yuuri's loyalty to Sherlock hinders his ability to think objectively of Mary.
> 
> Feel free to send me prompts, or ask for specific ideas that aren't necesarily for this particular verse.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own neither Yuri!!! on Ice nor Sherlock BBC.

There’s no hard feelings between Yuuri and John, nothing to forget and nothing to forgive. There are words exchanged over cups of coffee in the dead of night – it’s getting late even for the Speedy’s usual hours, and John hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the problems with Harry began -, a silent assurance that they would always be here for each other, no matter what. Not just because they have a _past_ of sorts together, but because that’s what they both need. John’s hand gingerly lays over his own, unconsciously patting the spot where his ring is. Yuuri’s fingers clench reflexively, fold into fists by his sides, itching to reach out to John, pull him in a hug.

 

Yuuri had kept his distance out of respect, trusting Mycroft to watch over John from the home-base, and yet he wouldn’t come to learn the better of John’s recovery before months – that is to say after more than a year, coming back to find the doctor in a relationship that had steadily evolved from coworkers to friends to boyfriend and girlfriend. And now to almost engaged, almost husband and wife and almost mother and father. That was a lot of “almosts”.

 

Yuuri insists on paying something which John protests until he pushes the hand fishing for bills back in his pocket.

 

“Keep it. You’ll need it.”

 

John scoffs, but not unkindly so. “I’m a doctor, Yuuri. I’m well off as it is.”

 

He knows he’s well off. He has bought a house with his girlfriend and can actually afford to use the tube. “I know. I meant for the ring.”

 

John’s head shoots up to look him in the eye. Yuuri shakes his own. Under the neon lights John’s hair is more silver than blond. The circles under his eyes aren’t as dark as they used to be, but they are there and that is what matters.

 

“I’m not on anyone’s side. All I want is for you to be happy. But I do have one question.”

 

John sits, patiently waiting.

 

Yuuri takes a deep breath. “Do you love her?”

 

John lets out a small sigh of his own, taking the time to breathe before answering after what feels like forever. “Yes. Yes, I do. I never thought I’d be able to… not again, not so soon after...”

 

Yuuri nods, all too understanding. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Asking Mycroft if he knows is pointless. As of lately his surveillance has been raised to at least five levels, when he knows that it was already high in the first place. Change is near.

 

“Should we tell him?” Whether or not he means John or Sherlock stays silenced. Yuuri himself can’t tell who he refers to.

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. That would be the death of him.”

 

Yuuri laughs at the poor attempt at a joke, sniffling a little.

 

Sherlock _is_ about as good as dead. No messages, no warnings, nothing. But if something were to happen to him, he would know.

 

Yuuri keeps his phone on at all hours just in case. A simple safety precaution.

 

* * *

 

She stands tall, almost a full inch taller than John, back straight with a confidence and authority that nearly takes him aback. Blonde and blue-eyed, pretty and charming without being drop-dead gorgeous, with a sense of humor that easily rivals the good doctor’s own. But different. Simply put she is, for lack of a better word, perfect.

 

Yuuri hates her on sight.

 

Her sweet, floral perfume clings to John’s clothes, and though she wears very little makeup, Yuuri can still find traces of her lips etched in his skin, carefully hidden right beneath the hem of his jumpers. She’s rubbed some cat hair in is clothes too. John is more of a dog person.

 

(But who is he kidding, really, in trying to justify himself?)

 

Yuuri doesn’t know any better, ans he hates it. But nevertheless he pushes the foreign, ugly feeling creeps inside his bones and forces himself to smile and extend a hand. The slope of her hand, and the angle stretching between her thumb and index is more rounded than perpendicular, betraying a certain flexibility he tests as their hands join in a gentle yet firm grasp. Mary has nimble fingers used to typing and holding a lot of things and working efficiently. Secretaries are good like that. Yuuri’s ready to bet she’d also be a wonder on a shooting range.

 

Mary Morstan is a fucking fraud.

 

It helps none of them that their mutual introduction, as polite and amiable as it may be, screams of awkwardness. Or maybe it is just him, always making things more difficult than they ought to be. There is no better way to put it in words, and yet it is entirely nonsensical. An emotional, mental response to the combination of facts his mind catches at the sight of her, leading to both a conclusion and a judgment that is entirely askew and not a product of objective logic.

 

Of course Yuuri does the most logical thing: shut his mouth. He doesn’t say anything, partly out of fear that he might - he must! – be wrong, and partly out of sympathy for John. For the first time in months the poor man actually looks alive. He’s not even cheating – and how far, Yuuri asks himself more often than he should, do the boundaries of “technical” extend on their situation? Sherlock is, after all, supposedly dead, which somehow still places him in a relationship with John.

 

But like a lot of other matters, all is in its due time.

 

Before Yuuri can stop himself, he blurts out “Eurus Holmes. But all my friends call me Yuuri.”

 

Confusion briefly dawns on Mary’s face before clearing as fast as it came, replaced by a small smile that curves playfully. John himself frowns beside him at first, but the pinch between his brows is gone the moment he comes to the second part of his sentence.

 

He isn’t sure exactly where that came from. He hasn’t used this name in ages, not in public ad never with strangers. Eurus sounds overly petty, or like he’s addressing someone else in talking to her. Still something gnaws at him, the impression that she is undeserving of calling him by his preferred name. Using his “real name” is a reminder of sorts. A rather far-fetched, but very clear way of telling her that Sherlock, his brother, was there first. He couldn’t be more subtle if he had an invisible sign floating above his head, with the words “I’m the brother of the guy your boyfriend used to fuck” written in big, bold letters and glowing in neon hues. Thankfully Mary is good not to mention his connection to Sherlock, his name never coming up once in the conversation even when she offers her sympathies.

 

“I hope that make me a friend, then?” Mary teases. Yuuri chuckles lightly, then winks at her.

 

Mary, sweet Mary. Mary, bloody Mary.


	2. Sweet child of mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment between Violet Holmes and her youngest son. Set after chapter 1/during chapter 2 (tba) of Cyclogenesis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter will be more understandable if you read Cyclogenesis. Only the first chapter has been posted so far, but the context is the same as the one in this drabble.  
> I kinda made myself emotional while writing this, don't mind me ^^ I'm more involved than I thought. The end of the chapter is not exceptionally well-written but it still managed to make me a wee bit sad while writing it, so there's a warning for you. Plenty of mother-son feels.  
> Unbeta'ed as per usual.

Violet Holmes had never hidden that she would have liked to have a girl.

One of her old literature teachers, a brute woman with a good heart, had joked that it was always best to have at least one girl in each family, lest the parents should go completely mad.

They had waited – maybe too long, maybe not long enough – but the little girl with Siger’s smile and her own looks never came. There were two little boys who were fast not so little anymore with her eyes and Siger’s curly mess of dark hair, but nothing else.

After that she wished for a normal child. Mycroft and Sherlock had grown fast, much too fast for their liking. When Mycroft had turned 18, he didn’t call her “mummy” anymore and Sherlock didn’t talk at all, and she knew that when both would finally move out of the house it didn’t feel any different from what they’d had before. By then it was already too late and there was nothing anyone, not even the doctors or Siger himself could do.

And then there was Eurus.

Eurus was the closest they had to a normal child, and always the most self-conscious of the bunch. He was smart, but he had none of Mycroft’s genius or Sherlock’s cleverness. He passed all of his exams with flying colours, just like his brothers had before him, and if he went home with a scholarship in hand without having scored full points, no one minded. They had anticipated jealousy on both the elder children’s part, but it never came. Violet assumed it was because they had doted on them too much to feel dependent. Siger, ever the optimist, thought it to be merely their own way of expressing brotherly affection. Both seemed like reasonable arguments.

She hadn’t thought much of her own desires for years after Eurus. The little ray of sunshine they had adopted from Japan, almost on a whim, after what had happened to his own family, was faring more than well.

To her amazement, her little boy seemed more attracted to arts than his brothers. Once she had caught him rummaging through her vanity, lips painted in a ghastly, clown-esque way that hadn’t made her the slightest bit horrified. Instead she had laughed and offered to help with his “stage make-up.” Soon Eurus rhymed with dance recitals, training sessions at the ballet room in the afternoons after school, dealing with being the only boy – and the only Asian boy – in his class, buying new shoes as soon as the old ones didn’t fit him anymore (he was growing so fast too…). At the tender age of 7, Eurus hadn’t wanted to be a pirate or a consulting detective or the king of England. He had wanted to be the best danceur of his generation and she would be damned if she didn’t help him in attaining his goal.

Sherlock, she recalled with pride, had taught him how to play the violin, taught him everything he knew. Mycroft had also highly contributed to enhancing his mental capacities, training his ability to remember as much information as possible from an early age through Shakespeare and Wilde plays. Probably too advanced for the poor boy, whose grasp on English had been average at best at only five years of age. It had had the merit of making the game of pirates more entertaining for Sherlock, who secretly delighted in having such a devoted sailor quoting his almost fictional ancestors aboard his plastic ships. Afterwards Eurus asked to be read Tempest before bed, feeling a spiritual connection to Ariel. Later on he had also wanted to be read Midsummer Night’s Eve because of the fairies, and further on he recited entire soliloquies, Lady Macbeth’s infamous monologue, know every line of Henri V’s cry into battle.

He was no little girl, and he wasn’t exactly normal either, but he was her son and she wouldn’t have him any other way.

 

* * *

 

“Those things will kill you.”

Violet gasped, almost letting go of her cigarette. “Oh bollocks!”

Laughter bubbled on Eurus’ lips, which he tried to contain as much as possible. Mummy Holmes wasn’t one for surprises, even good ones, and getting caught off guard was one of the things she hated most. It didn’t help that her youngest had slipped into her bedroom silence while she was surreptitiously smoking. Or at the very least, so she thought.

“For all your big talk with Sherlock and Mycroft...”

Violet snorted, but not unkindly so. The sound fell like a tired sigh on her lips. “Hush. You know I only do this when I’m stressed. Besides I haven’t smoked one in ages.”

“Ages” being the last time Sherlock had been graciously sent to rehab (months ago), courtesy of combined effort from Mycroft and Eurus. For all his attempts to keep the matter down and silent, Mycroft had dutifully, as older brother, informed the family of Sherlock’s progress – or lack thereof. For Eurus, there was no doubt left in mind that this had caused their mother to fall back into her old habits, if only for a night. But of course, it wasn’t the only reason.

They had just celebrated his 18th birthday, an event all in the family had been anticipating for years – yes, Sherlock and Mycroft did too even though they would sooner be submitted to torture than admit it out loud. Not only was the baby of the family almost legal, old enough to be considered an adult. A week from now, he would be leaving them. Going off on what Sherlock had called his “great adventure” in the search of his roots and his biological family.

Eurus stood still in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, watching as Violet Holmes took a few puffs on her cigarette, remnants of her lipstick lingering on the filter. In spite of the years that had worn down on her, she looked like a vintage film star, standing on her balcony wrapped in a long, blue dressing gown, cigarette elegantly poised between her fingers.

“It's getting late, birthday boy,” her voice broke him out of his trance. “You won't feel up to going to the opera tomorrow if you sleep in late. It would be a shame too; Mycroft said you’d been looking forward to it.”

“I was just about to crash in for the night.”

She groaned. “Oh, don’t use that word.”

“What word?”

““Crash in.” Makes me think about planes.”

“Mum…” Eurus sighed. He’d known she’d be feeling paranoid. “The odds of a plane crash are one for every 1.2 million flights, with odds of dying one in 11 million, compared to chances of dying in a car or traffic accident one in 5,000.”

“I know, I know,” his mother cut, shaking her cigarette, ashes falling on the bannister. “I dedicated an entire book to the Black Swan effect. I almost won a Nobel Prize for that.”

“Oh,” Eurus said, only mildly surprised. His mother had won quite a number of awards for her work, but he had never heard anything along the lines of a Nobel Prize. “What happened?”

Violet smiled, a gesture he found himself copying. “Stephen Hawking was there.”

“Your just showered, didn’t you?” she continued. “You’ll catch a cold if you stay out like that with your wet hair. And trust me, in a week you won’t want to spend 24 hours in a plane coughing out your lungs.”

“Actually I came to see if you would brush my hair.”

Her face visibly lit up.

“Why, I thought you'd never ask.”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve missed this,” she confessed in the middle of brushing his hair. Violet had started out combing it back, pushing the wet strands out of his forehead slicking them back easily as they were still wet. But in the end she had ended up messing it again, feeling the way his fringe felt, silken and smooth to the touch, under her fingertips. Eurus let her work, watching in the mirror of her vanity as she finger-combed his black hair and twisted it, giving it more volume. He hummed as her hands started massaging his scalp, letting his head fall back in the cradle her open palms formed.

“Have you?” he murmured, unwilling to break the comfortable atmosphere.

“I remember when you were ten, your hair was so long everyone thought you were a girl. It fell down your back and you sometimes wore it loose, parted on both sides. It curled up a bit because you had me braid it for you so much. My fingers would always end up sore but it was so fun.” She chuckled. “So different from spending hours typing away pages after pages of mathematics theses, and yet it required all my concentration. I was so scared of getting a knot wrong. I haven't had a chance to brush it since you had me cut it. Why is that?”

Eurus, sighed, then shook his head, some locks falling from Violet’s grasp. “I kept seeing ghosts when I looked in the mirror. Everytime I caught sight of myself, every reflection, I saw her.”

She paused. “Your sister?”

He nodded. “Ever since you gave me this picture of her on my 15th birthday, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I used to look at it and try to find all the details, everything that I could have missed the first time or the second time. Even though there was a difference I’d see myself and I’d find bleached ends where there were none, I’d see the same curls she tried to tame every day. I’d listen to the music she liked and I’d wear the same band t-shirts until I could no longer tell who I was.”

“You thought that by becoming her you would find your answer?”

Eurus laughed. A sad kind of laugh that sounded like a choked sob coming out of his mouth. “You know me. I always had too much of a glass heart to take it all in.”

Violet tutted, smoothing locks behind his ears and pressing a small kiss to his temple. “Darling, there’s nothing wrong with being emotional.”

“I know,” he whispered. “You taught me that.”

Her hands came to rest on his shoulders. Eurus felt them sag under their touch, gently, as her fingertips dug softly into his pressure points.

“Do you know,” she said, “what I see in the mirror when I look at you?”

Eurus frowned, then smiled softly. “No. What do you see?”

She inhaled, then exhaled heavily. “I see… I see the little boy who’d come to me and ask me to help him with his positions. The little boy whose only wish was for me to play with him and his plushies. Do you remember those days?”

Eurus shrugged. “In part. There are some blurry parts.”

“Because you didn’t have your glasses yet, silly. I’ll tell you. We'd play house. I'd make you real tea to serve in our old tea set and Daddy would cook those delicious scones and whip up some cream. Once Sherlock brought you honey he’d made himself, too. I'd never seen anyone so awkward yet so delighted. I’d beg you for days to tell me how you managed to get him to eat, when you told me that you didn’t do anything at all except ask.

“And later in the afternoon you'd sit with Mycroft and watch Lawrence of Arabia with him or put on one of his records. I'd put you in my old dresses and paint your face and nails. We'd dance in the middle of the ballroom and you tried to lead me whilst struggling not to fall in my heels.

“We’d have dinner – without dessert for Mycroft, and only a small portion for you because you insisted on keeping a diet when you were only ten. Ten! And before everyone would go to bed or drive back to London you’d give us a little show. You stood high on your tiptoes, and you danced from corner to corner of the living room, and whenever I saw you I had “Tiny Dancer” playing in my head. You used to love that song too, and had both Mycroft and Sherlock teach you how to play it on the violin and piano. I called you my little duckling when you said that it bothered you to be called piggy.

“And now,” Violet stopped, hands stilling on the sides of his neck. “Now I’ll have to call you something else too.”

 

“Hey.”

Eurus had spoken so low she had almost missed him speaking. Almost.

She caught him lifting his head to look up at her in their reflection, and she diverted her eyes from the mirror to look him in the eye. His wide, brown eyes so different of hers and Siger’s were bright, glazed with unshed tears, but happy.

“You know you'll always be my mummy, right?” He reached for her hands, squeezing them tightly. She responded with equal fervour, gripping his fingers so right she feared she would break something. “Come hell or high water.”

Violet sighed, but smiled down at him. “I know. But I'm scared that you'll leave forever. Everyone does at one point or another, that's life. But I just haven't come to terms with that yet.”

“There’s time for that, Mummy.” His cheek brushed the back of her hand as he pressed his lips to her knuckles, kissing them softly. “But I won’t leave you, never you. And I’ll always be your Eurus.”


	3. What to expect when one is expecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri has reservations about his niece-in-law before she is even born. Though they are mostly due to the expecting mother.
> 
> Warnings: implied sexual content, darkish Yuuri at the end, spoilers for His Last Vow.

Yuuri notices the first signs around April, exactly a month before the wedding.

It starts because of Mary wanting to change the menu and the cake flavour on a whim, and not liking the way the flowers for her bouquet smelt anymore. He initially brushes it off as the bride getting jitters about her big day, until he thinks about the last time she had seen such a familiar, disgusted expression on her face at the prospect of eating.

She’d also shown signs of suffering from nausea a week ago at work. Yuuri had made her some chicken soup, bringing a spare tupperware for John too.

“You’re so good to me.” Mary hummed, inhaling the scent of home-made chicken broth and fresh noodles. “It smells divine. Any chance I could steal that recipe?”

Yuuri leaned against her desk conspirationally. “I’d tell you,” he said, turning his head from side to side, looking at the solemn and fidgeting patients in the waiting area, “but I’d have to kill you.” He winked at her, causing her to laugh, then to stop entirely as she started coughing. He handed her a glass of water from the dispenser, which he also took gratefully.

“Have you been taking anything for that?”

Mary raised an eyebrow at him. “Who do you think I am, doc?” She had playfully started to refer to him as that ever since John told her that he’d studied for a medical degree. Neither of them would relent, no matter how often he mentioned that it had only lasted a year.

“A colleague prescribed some antibiotics, it should wear off in a few days.”

That should have been the first warning, in a sense. Many antibiotics were known to annul the contraceptive effects of the pill during treatment, and while the process itself also involved more factors such as the length of a woman’s cycle and her specific days of ovulation, Yuuri couldn’t have possibly known back then.

The math itself isn’t complicated. John and Mary had been together for the better part of six months before they’d eventually move in together and John would propose twice – he could thank Sherlock for the last part. Six months later they were in Baker Street, the four of them spending increasingly more time in 221B than in John and Mary’s house.

He almost drops his fountain pen on the floor when it clicks, only narrowly keeping it from spilling ink on the carpet. If any of them notices his clumsiness, they do nothing to point it out.

There are, at this point, only two clear thoughts crossing Yuuri’s mind amid the cacophony that is his head upon discovering it.

The most puerile and crude, and one that he isn’t particularly proud of, is “Oh. They screwed.” Nothing very shocking, overall. One could only expect so much when dating John “Three Continents” Watson, and living with him. If it had been the case in his previous (and failed) relationships, there was no reason why it shouldn’t happen with Mary. They were two adults in a happy relationship and with a prosperous marriage to come, and were free to engage in whatever they wanted to do. Nevertheless, it surprised him that two medical experts shouldn’t take precautions.

The second, and the most earth-shattering, is “Oh. Sherlock is going to be so heart-broken.”

It was impossible not to think of him, in spite of… well, everything. Yuuri himself had warmed up to Mary, reluctantly and in spite of all the doubts he harboured concerning her. The most harmful thing she had ever done in his presence was probably using sweet soy sauce with her sushi at the restaurant, and even that he could forgive to an extent.

Sherlock, to his astonishment, hadn’t realized that there was more to Mary that appearances gave away. In fact, the consulting detective seemed to be quite fond of the woman. Yuuri couldn’t blame him: she had been there for him when even his presence had been minimal at best.

Out of all speculations he can formulate, the most obvious is that Sherlock will definitely be asked to be the godfather. Odds are Yuuri is even next in line somewhere after Lestrade and Mycroft.

Mary had quietly slipped into John’s life and made herself a place right where Sherlock had fallen out, filling it out the best she could. She was clearly in love with John, and was fonder of Sherlock than she had (probably) ever been of Yuuri. And Sherlock had been grateful for her easing the blow of his return for John, as Yuuri was.

Yuuri genuinely thought and hoped that she was true to her words. It didn’t keep the feeling of dread from pooling inside his stomach.

 

* * *

 

It comes up later that night while in bed at his and Victor’s London apartment. Yuuri sits back against the headboard, pensive, curled onto himself with his chin resting between his knees and his arms hugging his legs to himself. He is so deep in thought that he misses the look Victor gives him upon exiting the bathroom, even when the Russian is standing practically right in front of him. Yuuri snaps back when his fiancé peppers kisses into his neck, trailing down from his jaw to his collarbone.

“Do you ever think about having kids?”

Victor freezes, also causing him to freeze. Yuuri winces, staring back at the incredulous eyes set on him. Victor’s pupils are dilated, his cheeks flushed from the combination of water and arousal, but the way his eyes widen and his skin looks a shade paler than usual is a telling sign.

A low, awkward chuckles rises from Victor’s throat when he finally decides to break the silence.“I’ll admit that it’s … a little disturbing to have you thinking about children when I’m trying to make love to you, but yeah okay, nevermind.”

Yuuri grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“No no no, don’t be.” Victor shakes his head, looking slightly more calm. “Just, this isn’t the kind of conversation I was expecting from you. Please tell me this isn’t some bigger, weirder stuff going on? Like, you don’t have some kind of breeding kink that I’d never heard of until today?”

If he could see himself, Yuuri is certain that he would be the exact shade of a tomato. He hits Victor’s stomach in reprimand, not missing the way it trembles from laughter under the back of his hand. The older man even winked at him, the nerve. “It’s nothing like that and you know it, silly!”

“I know, I’m just teasing you love.” Victor sobered up a bit afterwards. Feeling that this would be the end of his amorous attempts, Victor settled back against the pillow too, the towel riding low on his hips. Yuuri unconsciously followed the movement. “To answer the question, I do, actually. I’ve been doing that a lot since I retired from skating but I’ve never really given it that much thought. I always figured it was something we’d discuss after the wedding. Where’s that coming from?”

To say Yuuri was surprised would be an understatement. Victor was right, they had never talked about it, and yet his fiancé had considered it.

“I didn’t know it worried you so much.”

Yuuri had never thought about having kids. Which was a bit of a lie. After Japan, after visiting Mari and Minako, the thought of having children was the very last thing that should cross his mind. Mari had mentioned it during his last trip, months ago, after he had announced that the wedding would be delayed.

“I wouldn’t say that it worried me, just that I’ve considered it. And don’t avoid the question.”

Yuuri sighed in defeat, then leaned back against his chest. Victor’s arms wrapped around his middle, pulling him closer. “I think Mary’s pregnant.”

Silence followed the statement. “Oh.”

“Oh. That’s all you’re gonna tell me, oh?” For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, this wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting.

“I mean, I can’t really see what else I can tell you about that.” Victor was quick to defend himself. “What do you want me to say? That’s great for John and Mary, isn’t it?”

Yuuri sighed.

“If it’s really the case I’m thrilled but…”

“But you think that this should have been Sherlock and John’s baby, and not John and Mary’s,” Victor caught on quickly.

“It just makes everything so much more official. Can’t you see? This isn’t just about marriage, about showing up at city hall or at the altar. We’re talking kids. Kids! This is serious.”

“You say it as if getting married wasn’t already serious.” Victor smiled at him, but his expression held an edge to it that was a clear indication of him venturing into dangerous territory. And yet that didn’t stop him.

“You know what I mean… This is a very, very big step into a relationship, and they aren’t even aware of it.”

“Sherlock’s a big boy,” Victor reasoned, “he can handle it. He was there when John had other girlfriends, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, but they ended up dating anyway, didn’t they? And none of John’s exes had his kid. Heck, what if the baby’s not even his?”

“Yuuri.” No teasing transpired in Victor’s voice anymore.

“Just, think about it!” Yuuri groaned. “Mary invited her ex to her wedding. Her bloody ex whom, for some reason, she is still in contact with and on good terms with. Who the hell invites their ex or the person they used to screw to their wedding?”

“You do realize that Chris and I slept together at some point, and that he is invited to our wedding?”

“It’s not the same thing!”

Victor sighed. “Yuuri, I love you but right now you’re seriously looking for excuses to hate that poor woman.”

“I don’t hate her!”

“It’s kind of funny that you should point this out because you said the exact same thing about every single woman John dated before being with Sherlock.”

Yuuri huffed, admitting defeat on this part. Victor had born the brunt of listening to him rant when John and Sherlock had started living together, amounting to nights spent talking more about the extensive love life of his prospective brother-in-law than about his own day. And he hadn’t complained once, not even when Yuuri had started running like an old record.

“Look, baby,” he started, running his hand down Yuuri’s back in a soothing gesture. He leaned in as his fiancé’s fingers ran down his spine. “I don’t want us to be mad at each other, but you have to accept the facts. Like I said, Sherlock is an adult. He’s happy that John had found someone else and he’s moved on, alright? I know you worry about your brother, but for once not everything has to be about Sherlock Holmes.”

Yuuri snorted. “Please. Everything is about Sherlock. In the end all roads lead to Sherlock, one way or another.”

Victor pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’m sure he can afford to let the two lovebirds have their moment before we steal the glory, can’t he?” he added, winking for good measure.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, but still chuckled at that. “Isn’t that what we always do though?”

They settled together under the covers, Yuuri’s head coming to rest on top of Victor’s chest, legs curled around Victor’s own. The Russian wrapped an arm around his waist and brought up the other to turn off the light on the night-stand.

“Hey.” Yuuri started.

Victor’s hand stilled a few inches away from the lamp. “Yes, my darling?”

Yuuri paused. “… I suppose I wouldn’t be averse to trying out that kink if you’d like it too.”

All thoughts of sleep vanished from Victor’s mind. “Oh God yes.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t bring up the subject again until after the wedding, and it is a while before it quietens down, dethroned only by news only mother, father, godfather and uncle are privy to. For the first time in a while Yuuri finds himself at terms with the subject, neither irked nor comfortable enough with the matter to drop it, but throughout the months he has accumulated enough distance to know what it all entails.

Mary’s serenity is, as always, a force to reckon as he sits down by her side, sporadically pouring her cups of tea from a teapot that is too far and heavy for her to reach from where she sits on the couch. Or rather, sinks. Three months to go and the Watsons will count a new member in their growing family.

“How long have you known?” Mary says, flipping distractedly through the pages of a mathematics thesis. One of his mother’s many published essays, though any meaning the words may carry is beyond her understanding. Yuuri cannot really blame her. If he had as much on his mind as she did – and greater emotional context –, he is certain that he would feel the same. At some point she gives up and picks her cup of tea. It has gone rather lukewarm but it doesn’t stop her from blowing on it and then sipping, the suction causing ripples to form on the surface of the infused water.

He doesn’t need to ask what it is exactly that she refers to. Mycroft and him knew the signs the moment Sherlock texted to confirm that the Watsons would be spending Christmas with them. “Since the day we met.”

Mary snorts against the rim, her teeth clicking slightly against porcelain. “Of course. Let me guess, you did some research on me the moment John brought me up, do you have access to the MI5 database too?”

“As a matter of fact I do but that’s just a detail, and Mycroft’s area more than mine.” Yuuri sighs, then reclines in the back of the sofa. “No. It was just you. It was always just you.”

She hums non-committally, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. His gaze follows her mouth as she swallows the rest of the tea, the corners of her mouth pinched as she reaches the end, microscopic tea leaves cling to the edge of the cup. Mild irritation partly caused by the bitterness of the last notes of tea.

He should probably speak, but something restrains him. Most of what crosses his mind is, ultimately a silent and one-sided discussion. _I used to hate you, you know,_ he wishes he could say, but doesn’t. _I wish I could say that I did that on Sherlock’s behalf, or for the family as a whole, although let’s be honest I was never the best at letting go of things like that. I think I still hate you, one way or another, but now?_ _N_ _ow,_ Yuuri thinks, _I pity you more than anything. Because once you lose John Watson’s good opinion, you lose m_ _ine_ _forever._

It is her who breaks him out of his mind palace. “It’s never going to be the same, isn’t it?”

When he doesn’t answer – stupid questions stupid answer, Sherlock would say, disgusted by rhetoric questions as he is – she continues still.

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

This, he can answer. “Because I’d hoped to be wrong about you.”

Her answering chuckle is dry, devoid of humour. “Must be a relief then. I was a homewrecker all along and you were right the whole time.”

“Believe me, I’m as pleased about your current situation as you are. I think...” Yuuri starts, “I think you’ve been lectured enough and you will keep being told off. I don’t think I need to tell you not to do it again, do I?”

Mary raises an eyebrow. “Or what? It’s not wise to threaten a former assassin.”

“Nothing of the sort, but I just thought I’d bring something to your attention.”

Mary’s voice isn’t exasperated, but it is close. She makes a sweeping hand gesture in his direction that is a clear indication of what she wants. “Just get on with it, Holmes.”

Yuuri huffs. “See, you and I both know that Sherlock shot Magnussen for you. Hell, everyone is aware of it. But,” he rises, hands leaning onto the arms of the sofa, body fully angled towards Mary, “here’s a fun fact for you.”

One hand comes to settle on the back of the couch, supporting him as he looms above Mary. She stands her ground even in her position, her blue eyes never once wavering from his own, but he notices the way her free hand curls on her stomach. It makes him want to roll his eyes. As if he would ever think of harming his own niece.

“I just thought I’d mention that Molly Hooper didn’t write and sign Jim Moriarty’s autopsy report,” he speaks low and then, coming close enough that his lips brush her ear, whispers: “I did.”

Mary visibly freezes under him.

“You just think about what exactly that entails, hmm?” He leans away, a small smile crossing his lips. “I gave you a chance. Next time, I won’t hesitate.”

 

* * *

 

Both Yuuri and Victor wind up seeing little Rosie more than her parents themselves over the following months, willingly offering their help to babysit whenever the Watsons and Sherlock are on a case, their numbers now a permanent fixture among the emergency contacts. It is to no one’s general surprise that they are unofficially declared Rosie’s favourite uncles.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments and bookmarks are always appreciated. I'm @allollipoppins on tumblr & @AriL10N355 on twitter, hmu!


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